THE PARTY IS POUNDING with music, in a typical messy and overwhelming way that high school parties usually are.
the bass of the music is loud enough to the point where you feel the vibrations under your feet, and you spot mari and taissa shouting along with the song near the living room, people packed in almost every area of lottie’s gigantic house, and the air is filled with the scent of cheap beer and soda’s that are probably coating the very space you’re standing on.
this whole thing was a celebration. the night before nationals, where everyone got the chance to relax before the pressure of the game hits.
but you’ve spent most of your night keeping an eye on natalie.
you find her leaning against the kitchen counter again, strands of her blonde hair falling into her eyes while she laughs at some joke van makes. —READ MORE!
her eyeliner is a little more than smudged now, and there’s that soft, but also extremely buzzed look in her eyes that you clock immediately.
she’s drunk, you realize.
you push your way through the crowd until you finally reach her side and snatch the red plastic cup from her hand before she can take another gulp.
“natalie.”
she blinks at you, staring at the cup in your hand and then at you, with a look on her face that tells you she knows she’s been busted.
but the longer she stares at you, the more the expression on her face fades into something warm and love-stuck.
“…hey, baby.”
your stomach does that annoying little flutter.
“how much of this did you drink?” you ask, observing the contents of the mixed variations of alcohol in the cup, scrunching your nose in discontent.
natalie shrugs mindlessly, leaning obnoxiously into your warmth as if your shoulder is the most comfortable spot in the house.
“i uh.. dunno.”
“that’s not an answer, natalie.” you say sternly, giving her a pointed look.
she closes her eyes, as if she’s thinking about, before snapping her eyes open with a grin.
“…a lot.”
“gosh, nat—you could barely stand by yourself.”
“i’m not—”
she attempts straightening up and immediately tips over to one side, unbalanced. you rush to catch her before she can wake up with a black eye, your arm wrapping around her waist.
natalie lets out a quiet giggle and just melts against you, content to be in your arms.
“okay,” you sigh. “that’s it, home time.”
natalie turns her head back to look at you, intently gazing at your face closely as her expression turns soft and smiley.
“you’re so fucking pretty,” she says out of nowhere.
you hold back a smile.
“nat.”
“what?”
“you’re so drunk.”
“i’m in love with you,” she corrects in a serious tone, and you feel blood rushing to your cheeks.
“come on.”
you guide her through the crowd before finally making it to the door, natalie clinging to you as if you’re her life line, basically attaching herself to your hip. her hand slides into yours so she doesn’t lose you in the crowd.
outside, the chilly air hits your faces to your relief, the humid air was suffocating in there, and the overbearing atmosphere of the party instantly fades away.
natalie inhales the fresh air slowly, and she once again leans against you, stumbling over her steps, until suddenly, she stops walking.
you turn to face her.
“nat?”
she’s staring at the ground, her fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. “can i stay with you tonight?” the question comes out small and quiet, and you feel your heart ache in your chest instantly.
you know exactly why she’s asking.
going back to her house means facing the empty rooms and memories she would rather not confront.
and right now she looks like she may cry if you say no.
her voice gets quieter as she avoids your gaze.
“i just… i really don’t wanna go there tonight.”
your hand cups her face, brushing a piece of hair away from her eyes as you pull her closer.
“hey,” you whisper softly, and natalie’s bottom lip trembles as she closes her eyes.
“don’t cry, baby.”
“i’m not crying.”
“you’re about to, aren’t you?”
she lets out an embarrassed, defeated laugh.
your thumbs brush under her eyes as you lean in, leaving a soft kiss onto her nose.
“of course you can stay with me, you can always stay with me.” you say reassuringly.
a look of relief falls over her face, and before you can say anything else, natalie wraps her arms around your neck and hugs you with a strength you didn’t even know she had in her.
“thank you,” she whispers, and then she presses a kiss to your cheek, followed by another, and another.
“nat,” you laugh softly, tilting your head back.
“i love you,” she mumbles lazily against your skin.
“i love you too.”
she pulls back just long enough to kiss you properly this time, slow, soft, but also a little messy because she’s so completely drunk and smiling too much into the kiss.
“okay,” you say, gently leading her down the street with your hand in hers. “let’s get you in bed.”
nat shoots you a suggestive look, raising her brows as you giggle and shove her softly.
“not in that way, god.”
by the time you reach your house, natalie has one arm wrapped around your waist, refusing to let go.
“you’re so warm,” she whispers loudly.
“that’s because it’s fucking freezing.”
“i like it.”
you unlock your door quietly and lead her inside.
natalie immediately presses her finger to her lips with an over exaggerated, “shhh,” that’s probably louder than anything she’s said all night.
“you’re the one being loud.”
she giggles softly as you guide her down the hallway, passing the rooms your parent’s are sleeping in.
every time a floorboard creaks, something is so funny about it to natalie that it makes her burst into quiet laughter against your shoulder until you finally make it to your bedroom door.
the second she sees your bed, natalie finally loosens her grip on you and flops face-first into your soft blankets.
“oh my god,” she groans into your pillow. “this is actually the best bed ever.”
you let out a snort, closing the door behind you.
“you say that every time.”
“well yeah—because it’s true.”
you sit beside her and gently push her onto her back.
natalie immediately reaches for you again, her hands sliding up the warmth of your arms as if she’s making sure you’re still there.
“come here,” she mumbles lazily.
“i’m right here.”
she tugs lightly on your sleeve until you lean closer, and she kisses you, so soft and warm and lovingly.
when you pull back, she just smiles sleepily and leans forward to kiss you again.
“you’re so clingy tonight,” you tease with a grin.
natalie shakes her head.
“i’m in love tonight.”
“only tonight?” you ask jokingly.
“always, i’m always so fucking in love with you, it’s like—it’s all i can think about sometimes.”
you smile, your heart beating against your chest. you and natalie have been dating for so long at this point, but she still never fails to make you feel like a second grader with her first crush.
“hold still, okay?”
you grab a cloth from your vanity and start wiping the smudged eyeliner from her eyes.
natalie watches you the entire time with that dazed, out of the world expression.
“you’re taking care of me,” she whispers in realization.
“of course, someone has to.”
“i really fucking love you.”
you pause, really looking at natalie.
natalie brings her hand up to your face and cups your cheek with a gentleness.
“i mean it,” she says, looking to your eyes.
your chest feels warm.
“i know you do.”
she pulls you down into another kiss, lips finding yours once again.
when you finally help her sit up enough to pull her jacket off, she keeps stealing little kisses every time you get close enough.
your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, literally anywhere she can. “nat,” you laugh softly.
“what?”
“what’s up with you?”
“you’re beautiful.”
you shake your head, still laughing as you help her change into one of your oversized band shirts.
natalie sighs contently once she’s under your blankets, immediately grabbing your arm and pulling you down beside her.
the second your back hits the bed, she throws her body on top of yours. her leg drapes over you and her arms wrap around your stomach, her face pressed against your neck.
“you’re comfy,” she yawns.
your fingers gently thread through her hair.
natalie brings her head up just enough to kiss your jaw.
then your cheek.
then the corner of your lips again.
“you’re still managing to kiss me,” you whisper.
“i love kissing you.”
her voice is growing quieter now.
she presses one last soft kiss to your lips before settling her head on your chest, her arms tightening around your waist like she never wants to let go.
“i’m really glad you’re mine,” she whispers into the dark.
your heart clenches.
“i’m really fucking glad you’re mine too.”
natalie sighs, her breathing already starting to slow.
but even as she drifts into her slumber, she keeps one hand clenched tightly in the fabric of your shirt just in case you try to move away, but god knows you wouldn’t leave natalie in this moment even if your life depended on it.
✧ 𝑓. SPRING BREAK IS HERE I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS (i have 12 articles to annotate lol..) guys idk what to do i can only ever write for natalie 😭😭 help. also i just clocked that coach ben’s actor is with caroline from tvd… like woah…. and life update rn i’m rewatching supernatural i forgot this shit was depressing asf like omg. ok hope u enjoyed feel free to send requests ily guys !!!🫰🫂
𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @lcvealwayss @viennasolace @love4madii @keilahhhsstuff ♡ thank you so much for joining !
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idk if u will see this but could u maybe write smth on a fem!housewife!reader who has settled down into her white picket fence neighborhood until nat moves in next door and she's kinda a "bad influence" (like they fall for each other and nat thinks the reader's being hard to get until she sees she has a husband)
i don't even know what I'm saying anymore lmao I just had this thought!! nat freeing fem!reader from a mundane life and being her gay awakening
⠀⠀⠀𓏲 ⠀⠀I WISH I WAS YOUR GIRL⠀ 𓂅⠀natalie scatorccio⠀⠀ ೃ۫ ׅ ⠀
ིྀ ﹒ ( 𝔠.𝔴 ) emotionally cheating unaware of feelings flirting this is too long (part two coming, for sure) 3,6k words
PART 2 HERE
The house had too many windows.
That was the first thing you noticed when you moved in. Tall white-framed things stretching from floor to ceiling, letting light pour in at all hours of the day until the rooms glowed honey-gold by evening, until your reflection followed you everywhere. In the kitchen. In the hallway. In the laundry room where warm towels came out smelling like lavender and static.
Your husband loved the windows.
“Open concept,” he’d said proudly the first time he showed you the place, one hand warm at the small of your back. “Feels alive, doesn’t it?”
And it did. At first.
The house sits just outside town where the roads widen and the trees grow thinner, where businessmen build their dream homes far enough apart that nobody hasto see each other hurting. There is a long gravel driveway, hydrangeas planted by the porch, a swing hanging from the old oak tree out front that your children fight over every summer evening.
You love your children with a kind of frightening devotion. The kind that your mom warned you about when you were younger, one day, you’ll understand. And now, you do. You love the soft weight of your daughter asleep against your shoulder after church. Love your son’s missing front teeth and grass-stained sneakers abandoned by the door. Love cutting apples into thin crescent moons while cartoons play faintly in the next room. Love tiny hands reaching for you automatically in crowded grocery stores like their bodies know yours by instinct.
Sometimes you watch them through the kitchen window while doing dishes. Your husband loves you too. You know that.
He kisses your forehead every morning before leaving for work, already smelling faintly of cologne and coffee, tie half-done while he checks his watch. He works long hours downtown in glass buildings that reflects the sun so bright they hurt to look at. Finance. Real estate. Something involving meetings and phones constantly vibrating against countertops.
At night he comes home tired but gentle.
“How were my girls today?” he’d ask, scooping your daughter into his arms while your son clung to his leg. Sometimes he looks at you like he still can’t believe you are there. That is the terrible part.
Nothing was wrong.
Nothing was wrong, and still there was a hole inside you big enough to swallow a life.
Standing at the sink one afternoon with your hands submerged in warm dishwater, staring out toward the empty road beyond the trees, you suddenly feel the unbearable certainty that you are waiting for something. Something enormous. Something unnamed.
You start driving aimlessly some afternoons after dropping the kids at school. Down backroads lined with telephone poles and dying cornfields. Past gas stations buzzing with neon beer signs even in daylight. Past little churches with hand-painted scripture out front. You’d roll the windows down and let hot southern air tangle your hair, music low enough to feel like a secret.
Sometimes you imagine just continuing.
Missing the turn home. Crossing state lines. Becoming someone with a different name.
And then guilt will hit so hard it makes your stomach ache.
Because you love them. God, you love them. Your daughter still crawls into your bed during thunderstorms. Your son cries if you miss soccer practice. Your husband reaches for your hand in his sleep every single night like his body fears losing you even unconscious.
So what kind of woman looks at a beautiful life and still wants more?
“I think I’m gonna go for a drive,” you tell him, grabbing your keys off the counter.
Your husband looks up from his newspaper. “Where to?”
You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Just… around.” He studies you for a second too long before nodding and going back to reading.
The engine starts with that familiar rumble that used to make your heart race when he first took you on dates in this car. Now it just feels like another thing tying you down.
The highway stretches ahead empty under gray skies as rain begins pattering softly against the windshield. What once felt right, now it just haunts you.
Especially late at night.
When your husband sleeps beside you, one arm heavy across your waist, and you would stare at the ceiling and feel it — that terrible quiet ache opening inside you like a second mouth.
The washing machine rattles soft and steady in the laundry room. Outside, late september light spills gold across the backyard. The grass needs cutting again. One of the flower beds is beginning to brown at the edges from the heat refusing to loosen its grip on the season. You need to call Margaret again so she can help you.
You stand at the dining table folding tiny cotton shirts still warm from the dryer. Your son’s soccer jersey. Your daughter’s pink pajamas with the faded strawberries. Your husband’s crisp white work shirts that smell faintly like detergent and the expensive cologne he sprays onto his throat every morning before kissing you goodbye.
The house is quiet in a way that almost hurts.
No cartoons blaring from the living room. No little feet running through the hallway. No phone calls from your husband asking where he left some file or another. Just sunlight stretching lazy across hardwood floors and the soft creak of the ceiling fan overhead.
The sound comes sudden enough to pull you from your thoughts — a truck engine coughing loud from outside. Like the bored woman you are, you glance toward the window.
A beat-up pickup truck is pulling into the driveway next door.
The house beside yours has been empty nearly five months. A FOR SALE sign sat crooked out front all summer long, bleaching slowly beneath the sun. Families came and went during open houses, but nobody ever stayed.
Until now.
The truck looks wrong against the neighborhood somehow. Too rusted.
The body of it is faded dark green, paint peeling near the doors, one headlight cracked. Dust coats the tires like it’s driven through half the country to get here. There’s a mattress tied down in the back beneath a blue tarp, along with cardboard boxes and what looks like an old guitar case.
The driver’s side door swings open.
And then there’s the girl. Young. Not young-young. Your same age, mid-twenties.
She climbs out slow, boots hitting gravel, one hand pushing the truck door shut with her hip. Blonde hair hangs messy around her shoulders, sun-bleached in places like she spends too much time outside. She wears a faded flannel over a black tank top despite the heat, sleeves shoved to her elbows. Cigarette tucked behind one ear.
There’s something sharp about her.
It’s clear she belongs to roads more than houses. She stands there a second with one hand on her hip, staring at the place she’s apparently decided to live in. The wind catches strands of her hair. You watch her squint up at the roof like she’s expecting it to collapse.
And for reasons you can’t explain, something inside you happens. Curiosity blooms sudden and warm.
You imagine what your husband would say.
Probably something practical. Hope she keeps the property value up. Wonder what she does for work. Maybe joke about the truck looking like it survived the apocalypse.
But you can’t stop looking at her.
She looks lonely. Not like you, not in the polished suburban way people here get lonely. Not wine-at-night loneliness or too-many-committee-meetings loneliness. Meaner than that.
The girl reaches back into the truck for a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. She leans against the hood while lighting one, shoulders slumped with exhaustion like the act of arriving somewhere has taken everything out of her.
Smoke curls silver into the afternoon air.
And suddenly you’re aware of yourself standing there barefoot in the kitchen, hands smelling like laundry detergent and cinnamon dish soap, staring at a stranger like she’s something you’ve been waiting for.
It unsettles you.
Enough that an hour later you’re standing in your kitchen baking a pie. An apple pie, to be specific.
Because it feels neighborly. Because your mother taught you years ago that people forgive almost anything if it comes wrapped in butter and sugar. Because your hands need something to do.
The entire time it bakes, you keep glancing toward the window. The girl carries boxes inside one at a time. Not much luggage. No family helping. No moving company. Just her and the truck and the slow deliberate exhaustion of somebody used to doing things alone.
By the time the pie cools, the sky has started turning that syrupy amber color that only exists right before evening. You tell yourself not to overthink it. You smooth your dress down anyway.
Gravel crunches beneath your heels. The front door of the house is half-open when you reach it. You knock gently against the frame.
The girl appears a second later holding a cardboard box against her hip. Up close, she looks even more tired. Freckles scattered faint across sunburnt skin. Eyes pale and watchful in a way that makes you suddenly conscious of your own heartbeat.
With shaking hands, you lift the pie slightly like an offering. “Hi,” you greet softly with a smile. “I live next door.”
She blinks at the pie, then at you. For a second she just stands there like she’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick. Her nose wrinkles slightly at the sweet cinnamon smell rising from the pastry.
The box in her arms shifts awkwardly as she clears her throat.
“Uh… thanks,” she says finally, voice rougher than expected. Smoker’s voice. Road-trip voice. “That’s really nice of you.”
You smile a little, suddenly nervous for reasons you can’t name. “It felt rude not to bake you something.” You shift the pie dish carefully between your hands. “I’m sorry if this is weird,” you apologize, suddenly self-conscious. “I just thought I should say hello.”
“You’re not weird,” she reassures quickly, and for the first time, her voice softens. The tension in her shoulders eases just a fraction. She shifts the box again before setting it down on a dusty table by the door. Then she reaches out with both hands to take the pie from you.
Her fingers are warm. Calloused at the knuckles like someone who plays guitar or fixes things with their hands all day. “Thanks,” she repeats, quieter this time. “That’s… really sweet of you.” Her eyes flicker up to yours briefly before darting away again toward an open cardboard box full of tangled clothes and mismatched socks behind her. Then she steps aside from the doorway.
“You wanna come in?”
“Sure,” you say, stepping across the threshold. The house smells like dust and cigarette smoke, but not in a bad way. More like someone’s lived there for years already.
The girl kicks a stray shoe out of the way as she leads you further in. The living room is mostly empty except for that one box of clothes and an old couch covered with a stained blanket. “I just got here today,” she admits while placing your pie carefully on the kitchen countertop — which has cracks along its surface from what looks like previous owners’ carelessness.
“Yeah, I know.” It sounds stupid and you wince mentally. “I mean... I was really bored and I’m as nosy as a eighty year old woman.”
“Nah, nosy’s fine,” she quips with a small smirk. “I mean, I did just show up in a truck that looks like it died twice.” She leans back against the counter and crosses her arms. The cigarette is still tucked behind her ear, unlit now.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Really? It didn’t? That is a tough truck.”
“God, I know,” she laughs, finally pulling the cigarette from behind her ear. “She’s a piece of shit but she gets me everywhere.” She rolls it between her fingers absently before putting it back. “Name’s Nat by the way.”
It suits her. Short and straightforward, like someone who doesn’t bother with pretenses. You tell her your name, too and she tastes in her tongue. Repeats it.
“So what brings you to the neighborhood?” you ask, trying to sound casual as your eyes drift over the sparse furniture. There’s a small TV sitting on a milk crate in the corner, and an amplifier stacked beside it with cords snaking across hardwood floors.
“I needed a fresh start,” Nat replies, shrugging one shoulder. “Got tired of the city. Too loud, too much… people.” She pushes off the counter and starts walking toward the fridge — an old white one with rust around its edges that probably came with the house. “How long have you been living here?”
“Like, six years,” you skip the part where you say with my husband and my twins. “I moved here after college.”
Nat nods as she yanks the fridge open. It groans in protest. Inside: half a carton of eggs, a bottle of hot sauce, and some beer cans lined up like soldiers on a shelf. She grabs one beer without asking permission and pops the tab with her thumb. “That’s cool.”
Not so cool anymore, your mind supplies but you turn the thought off.
“I’m not great with neighbors,” Nat admits, taking a long swig of beer. “Not that I’ve had any in a while.” She leans back against the fridge door now, studying you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re friendly or just polite.
The silence stretches for half a second too long before you clear your throat.
“Well, I should go now.” You press your lips together awkwardly. “Like I said, I live next door so I’m really close if you ever need something.”
Nat nods, taking another sip of beer. “Cool,” she repeats, like that’s the only word in her vocabulary right now. She shifts on her feet. “Thanks for the pie.”
“Anytime. See you.”
It starts small. Little rebellions.
The first cigarette happens three days after you meet Natalie.
You’re standing barefoot in her backyard while dusk settles blue and slow over the neighborhood. She’s trying to fix something underneath the hood of her truck, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across her knuckles. Classic rock hums low from a radio balanced on the porch railing. Fireflies blink lazy over the grass.
You’re supposed to be home starting dinner. Instead you’re watching sweat slide slowly down the side of her throat while she curses at the engine.
“Your truck sounds haunted,” you tell her.
Natalie snorts without looking up. “That’s because it is.”
You laugh — you’ve been doing that a lot lately. More than usual. It feels strange in your own mouth sometimes because you’re rediscovering a language you stopped speaking years ago.
Nat reaches for the cigarette tucked behind her ear and lights it with one hand. The flame glows briefly gold against the falling dark. Then she looks at you. “You ever smoke?”
You should say no. Should say your husband hates cigarettes. That your kids would cough loudly if they smelled smoke on your clothes. That good women in neighborhoods like this do yoga classes and drink wine with dinner and keep their lungs clean.
Instead you shrug a little.
“Not really.”
Nodding, Nat leans back against the truck beside you. Holds the cigarette out between two fingers. “C’mere.”
The filter is warm when you take it from her. You cough after the first inhale hard enough to make her laugh. “Oh my god,” she chuckles, grinning openly now. “You’ve seriously never smoked before.”
You wipe tears from your eyes, laughing too despite yourself. “I told you not really.”
“Relax, it’s not gonna kill you.” She plucks the cigarette from your fingers before you can protest and takes another drag. The orange ember flares in the darkening yard. Then she leans in and blows the smoke in your moth.
“That’s cheating.” You gasp, waving a hand through the smoke. Your chest still stings from the first drag.
Nat grins. It’s a real grin this time — crooked and bright with mischief. “You’re cute.”
The words land like something soft hitting your stomach.
No one calls you cute anymore unless it’s in reference to your kids’ baby photos on Facebook. Your husband says beautiful mostly during sex, never just… cute. Not casually like that while smoking behind her dying truck at 8pm on a Tuesday night.
Your face gets warm despite yourself and before Nat does something about it, you pull away from her abruptly, leaving her confused. “I have to go home.” Meaning: I have to go back and be with my husband, not feeling like a teenager when I’m twenty five years old.
Afterward you go home and scrub your hands twice before your children return from school. You make spaghetti. You help with homework. You kiss your husband hello when he walks through the door tired and handsome in his rolled-up sleeves.
“You smell like smoke?” he asks absentmindedly while loosening his tie. Your stomach drops. But then your daughter starts talking over him about something that happened at school, and the moment passes. Just like that.
Still, guilt clings to you all night.
And beneath the guilt — worse somehow — is excitement.
The next day, Nat shows up at your back door holding a six-pack loosely against her hip. “You busy?”
You should be. Laundry waits upstairs unfolded. The grocery store closes in two hours. Your son has soccer practice later.
Instead you find yourself sitting cross-legged beside her on the floor of her half-unpacked living room drinking cheap beer straight from the bottle while rain taps soft against the windows. Nat tells stories like somebody who’s spent most of her life leaving places.
Arizona.
Colorado.
Wiskayok, her hometown where she lived in her whole life until high school was over.
Some tiny town in Ohio where she says she lived above a bait shop for six months because the owner let her pay rent late.
“You ever stay anywhere long?” you ask.
“Not really,” Nat takes a swig of beer. “I get bored after like… a year.” She leans back against the couch cushions, kicking her boots up onto the coffee table. The house still feels empty around you both — boxes everywhere, no pictures on walls. “Most places just… didn’t feel like home.”
“So you’re not staying here, right?” You feel disappointed, somehow.
“I mean… I could stay here.” Nat shrugs, rolling the beer bottle between her palms. “This house is cheap as hell. The landlord didn’t even care that my truck looks like a war crime.” She glances at you sideways. “But yeah, probably not forever.” A pause. “Nothing ever is.”
You start spending afternoons there.
You sit on her porch while she tunes her guitar badly and drinks beer from the can. Sometimes she drives the two of you nowhere in particular with the windows down and music loud enough to shake the doors. Once she took you to a shitty roadside bar thirty minutes outside town where the floor stuck to your heels and somebody played old country songs on a jukebox.
That night, you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Nat watches you afterward with this strange quiet look on her face.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
“Nothin’.”
“Yes it is.”
She takes a slow sip from her drink without breaking eye contact. “You look pretty.”
Your cheeks burn. You snort, in desbelief. “Sure.”
“I mean it,” Nat leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You look pretty. Like… really pretty.” She says it so simply, like she’s stating a fact about the weather or the taste of her beer.
“Thanks,” you mumble into your drink, suddenly self-conscious about how long your hair has been since its last cut or whether there’s mascara smudged under your eyes. When you glance up at her, her gaze is intense.
The compliment lands differently than anything your husband has said in years because it feels unplanned. Like she just noticed and couldn’t stop herself from saying it out loud.
She studies you like she’s memorizing something. Then, she starts leaning in. Confused, you swallow and clear your throat while checking the watch on your wrist. “I think I should get going.”
Nat exhales sharply through her nose, clearly disappointed. “Right,” she whispers, sitting back and taking another sip of beer. She watches you stand up and brush off your jeans. The porch light flickers above you both. “You coming by tomorrow?”
“Okay, yeah — dumb question,” Nat relents with a small smirk.
When you get home, you are buzzing lightly from alcohol and the sound of her laughter still caught in your ears. Your husband is asleep on the couch with your daughter curled against his chest.
The sight of them nearly destroys you.
Because you love them — you love them so much it feels like grief sometimes. You stand there in the doorway still smelling faintly like beer and smoke while guilt blooms heavy beneath your ribs.
And yet, the next afternoon you go back to Natalie’s house anyway.
By october, she starts touching you more. Her hand settling briefly against your lower back while squeezing past you in the kitchen. Her knee knocking yours during long porch conversations neither of you bothers moving away from. Fingers brushing cigarette ash from your sleeve.
One afternoon she reaches over absentmindedly and tucks your hair behind your ear while you’re talking. The gesture is so gentle it steals the breath from your lungs. Nat pauses afterward like she surprised herself too. Then she smiles crookedly.
“There y’are,” she murmurs.
You laugh nervously and look away.
What’s worse is that Natalie doesn’t know — about your husband. Your children. The life waiting for you every evening in the big white house next door.
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ a/n :: i’ve been thinking abt pre crash lottie for a while, she’s so cute yall don’t get it actually (divider from here !!)
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who has the cutest wardrobe you've genuinely ever seen. her whole style is a combination of cute lace tights, long denim or not skirts, fur coats, and her bangs are the cherry on top.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who tries to seem mysterious and silent to naked eye, but once you fully meet her and know her for who she really is, let's just say she isn't that introverted anymore.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who's clingy BUT not too much. as in she loves to be around you mostly but knows when she has to give you your own space (still she misses you nonetheless).
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who isn't really innocent? people confuse her as nerdy and awkward but i don't think she's really a goodie-two-shoe. but she's still sweet ESPECIALLY with you.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who lends you her stuff! cute hairclips for when you forget your hair tie at home, or fancy tops. specifically when you do sleepovers during school days and you add a little extra to the clothes you brought as a change.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who likes shopping. not her main virtue but she's rich so she likes to spoil herself sometimes! and, of course, she brings you too. she's the type of partner to make you hold her stuff while she's trying clothes on in the dressing room.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who likes to spoil you! why wouldn’t she? you’re her baby, for her just your existence is worth to get you anything you want. tell her you like a dress you’ve seen through a glass you while passing by the street, she’d ask where you saw it exactly and provide it to you. she doesn’t play about you.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who's the type to not wear a jacket because it might ruin the outfit 😭. i feel like both her and jackie do this, that’s why they're always sick.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who buys flowers for your dates. you name your favorite flower, she finds the nearest florist and gets it it for you every one-month anniversary.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who’s obsessed with sharing her lipgloss with you. and by sharing, i mean smacking her lips onto yours so the substance can shift from her mouth to yours. also, whenever she puts lipstick on, expect to have a mark when she kisses you.
⟢ NSFW !!
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who, speaking of leaving lipstick stains, likes to mark her territory on your neck specifically. during sloppy make outs, her mouth somehow will find a way to that spot.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who wears those cute panties of hers while humping her pillow, thinking about you. as i’ve mentioned before, lottie isn’t clingy but she still misses your presence. so, whenever she pictures you doing any mundane task, she has to relieve the urge.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who, when feeling stressed over a test or anything else, humps your thigh to let her feelings out. she thrusts her hips into the muscle while her hand is tangled in your locks, positioned over your scalf.
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who, during the nasty, will beg you to shift in between her thighs. one thing lottie thrives on is you eating her out, her juices spilling over your hand as your fingers are busy going in and out of her. and with your tongue buried into her clit? even better!
❤︎ 𓂃 hyperfemme!lottie who would hump her so-called pillow in front of you. still wearing her cute underwear, the pistachio green one you longingly enjoy, she’d be frantically grinding her pussy over the pillow case as you keep watching.
🏷️ tags . . . @bewitched-pearl @mimiruuna @pancakes21 @bbatzvil @diouna @mariistic @mojo-is-rising ➥ if you wanna be in comment on this post !!
Summary: You and Natalie started dating a few months ago. Everything was great, until both your parents found out and tried to split you both up. So, you decided to steal your dad’s truck and run away together. | aka headcanons of you both being runaways |
Tags: nsfw, established relationship, fluff, smutty headcanons -> car sex, thigh riding, shower sex, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (nat!receiving) | drinking, implied homophobic parents, reader being bad at navigation, reader has road rage (so does nat).
Notes: ngl I hate how colourless this is. Whatever I write next will have colour! I hope… also two writing posts whilst sick?? Good health is out to sabotage me apparently.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO puts herself in charge of navigating whilst you drive. Only decided after you got them both lost for the second time. Not that you had any destinations in mind, but a cow field definitely wasn’t one of them.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO is in charge of the music for the entire duration of the trip, however long that may be. Who always groans and complains about her neck hurting every time she wakes up in the truck but lets you nap on her chest during driving breaks anyways.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO uses her money to buy a small bottle of vodka with a fake ID you got her and sits in the back of the truck at night sharing it with you. Who lets music quietly play from the radio whilst you smoke together at a secluded spot near a bunch of cliffs on the side of the road.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO 100% does know that you got them lost whilst she was asleep in the passenger seat. Who pretended she had absolutely no idea until you got to a long empty road, making her bring it up so you could switch places with her, giving her the opportunity to speed down the road as much as she wanted.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO keeps your hands linked together, resting on the centre console whenever you’re driving. Who loves watching you focus on driving or waving your hands around whilst giving ideas on places you could go.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO props her feet up on the dash without fail not long after she wakes up, lighting up a cigarette to go along with it. Who can’t help snickering when you get that annoyed look on your face from the car in front of you both being an awful driver. Who is an absolute hypocrite judging by the look of careful concentration she gets on her face from trying not to glare when she’s in that position herself.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO sits with half her body out of the window and her legs inside the car when they park at rest stops. That or the hood of the car.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO runs her hand through your hair whenever you’re sleeping, whether it be in the car or some dingy motel you both found. Who can’t believe you left everything behind to be with her.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO wakes you up by kissing your neck when you stay anywhere with a bed, you both sleep not so well in the car. Who runs her hands up your sides, pulling you closer and smiling against your skin when you let out a sleepy hum.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO takes full advantage of the bed and rolls over so she’s above you, slotting a thigh between your legs as she leans down to kiss you properly. No need to be careful when you aren’t risking being caught by your family. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO practically drags you into the shitty bathrooms in motels after being on the road for a while. Who you push against the bathroom wall, marking up her neck before she even has a chance to get out of that red bra of hers. Who throws her head back onto your shoulder with a moan when your fingers trail down to circle her clit under the shower spray.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO pulls you down flush against her thigh in the back of the truck after having a few drinks together. Who happily sucks hickeys into your neck whilst you grind against her, not caring about anyone who might drive by.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO sneakily drags you into the gross bathroom stalls at gas stations to make out. Who buries her face in your neck with one hand thrown around your waist and the other already having two fingers buried inside you.
RUNAWAY!NAT WHO blames her sore muscles on being uncomfortable whilst sleeping in the car despite having had her head thrown back against the passenger seat and her thighs tensed tight around your head the night before as you knelt in the footwell beneath her, face buried in her cunt.
my inbox is open for travis thirsts !! also shout to me for sucking ass in all fours and probably any card game to touch earth
The only card game you knew how to play was Go Fish. It was a lot easier since the deck had no Queens, one less suit to worry about. Although Travis attempted to teach you other games, you got sick of losing to him even when he played the games in your favour.
After a terrible losing streak, you asked if he knew any magic tricks. He perked up at the question, but concealed his eagerness with a nonchalant, “Yeah.”
Travis’ deft fingers skillfully split the deck and shuffle the cards. The card you had picked lingered at the back of your mind as you watched Travis show off another unnecessary shuffling technique. You sigh dramatically when he reshuffles the cards for the millionth time. It’s to get the point across that he wasn’t playing any cheap tricks — you understood that, but did he really need to show off?
Your face displayed scepticism, but beneath the surface, you were intrigued. Especially when his fingers which usually rest on a trigger, effortlessly glided between the cards. The image of Travis in his room perfecting his card tricks made you smile a little. Despite his attempts to hide it, Travis was such a dork.
Finally, he stops. Travis holds the stack of cards in his left hand, flipping the card at the top of the deck to show you with his right. He questions, “Is this your card?”
“No,” you responded amused. You’d feel bad if he wasn’t showing off his fancy fingerwork. All those tricks just for it to fall flat.
“Are you sure?” he asks, confusion embedded in his words. Travis flipped back the offending card, a 7 of clubs, concealing it once more.
“I’m pretty sure I remember what my card looks like.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion as Travis leaned over the creaky old table, stretching out his arm. His hand reaches behind your ear, revealing another card out of thin air. The card was wedged between his index and middle finger, and your eyes widened in surprise.
“Did it look like this?” The singular red heart at the centre popped out against the off-white background. You grabbed the card, analysing the stiff paper for any sign of foul play. The Ace of Hearts, your card.
You looked at him bewildered. Travis didn’t anticipate your genuine shock. When he first showed the trick to his mom, even at eleven years old he could sense she wasn’t honest in her reaction.
“Wha— how?”
Travis leans back against his chair, a smug grin on his face. He shrugs, “A magician never reveals his secrets.”
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You want to break up things with Shauna but she won't let you. Or you do break up but she legit make your life a hell so you have no other choice but to come back to her. Love abuser Strapman.
You’re in the middle of your shared hut, words loud and messy, your voice shaking more from exhaustion than fear. Shauna stands like a statue while you say it. “It’s over, I can’t do this anymore.” for a second, it almost feels like she understands, like it worked like maybe she’ll let you go.
She doesn’t and she won’t.
Her jaw twitches. She doesn’t raise her voice. Just stares at you like you’ve personally insulted her with the thought of leaving. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.” She steps closer, slow, like a wild animal assessing a threat. Her voice stays flat, eerily calm. “You’re tired. Or pissed off. Or trying to prove something. But this, us, you’re not walking away from it.”
“I already did,” you snap, backing away, your heel brushing the side of your shared bedroll. “I can’t be with someone who acts like I’m their property.”
Shauna’s eyes narrow. “You are mine.”
You flinch, just slightly, but she notices.
“I mean it,” you say, softer now. “We can’t be together. I need—space. Something normal.”
Shauna scoffs. “Normal? Out here?” She gestures to the woods beyond the thin walls of the hut. “You think anything about this is normal?”
“I just want peace.”
“You don’t get to have peace without me.”
You swallow hard. There’s no yelling. No dramatic blowup. Just the unbearable pressure of her presence, the certainty in her eyes that says she’s already decided this isn’t something she’s going to take seriously. That your words are something she can erase with time or pressure you into taking back.
“I’m sleeping in the storage cabin tonight,” you say, grabbing your coat.
Shauna doesn’t stop you. Not with her hands, at least. But as you push past her and step outside, she murmurs low enough that only you hear:
“You’ll come back. You always do.”
⸻
It starts the next morning.
Your boots are gone. Van claims she hasn’t seen them. Akilah avoids eye contact. When you finally find them tucked behind the meat shed, soaked and half-frozen, you know it wasn’t an accident.
Meals get portioned out without your share. Taissa “forgets” to mention the firewood schedule. Misty, always watching, gives you tight smiles but no real help.
Shauna doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.
She still sleeps in your hut alone. Leaves your spot untouched, the blanket neatly folded. You see it when you sneak glances. You see her too, quiet in the mornings, scribbling in that little journal of hers with a furious intensity, gripping her pen so hard you think she might break it.
You think about confronting her. You don’t. You know what she’ll say.
You made your choice.
She’s just making sure you regret it.
⸻
The real fallout happens three days later when you speak up during dinner.
“We’re running out of dried meat,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. “We should set up another hunt.”
“We already did,” Gen says without looking up.
“Well, it’s not enough.”
Misty snorts softly. “Maybe if you were still helping Shauna, we’d have more.”
Your head snaps toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just think it’s funny,” she says, with that wide-eyed innocence she wears like a mask. “You used to be so useful.”
You’re on your feet before you realize it, your tray clattering to the floor. “Say that again.”
“Misty,” Taissa warns. “Cool it.”
But Shauna’s already standing.
She hasn’t looked at you all night, hasn’t acknowledged you in days, but now she turns, deliberate and slow. The clearing goes quiet. Even the fire seems to still.
“If you have something to say,” she murmurs, “say it to me.”
Your chest burns. “Why don’t you say it? Tell them why they’re treating me like shit. Tell them why you told them to.”
Shauna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I didn’t tell anyone to do anything.”
“You didn’t have to!”
The silence is heavy. The whole camp stares.
Shauna steps forward, and the crowd parts like they’ve been trained to move when she does. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing in front of you, too close again, like she’s testing if you’ll flinch this time.
You don’t.
“You walked away,” she says, voice quiet enough to make people lean in. “You didn’t want me anymore, remember?”
“I didn’t say I wanted everyone to turn against me.”
“But that’s what happens,” she murmurs, “when you break something important. People get… upset.”
“I broke you, is that it?”
Shauna smiles. It’s not kind. “You never had the power to break me.”
You grit your teeth. “Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me?”
“Because I trusted you,” she snaps, finally letting the anger bleed through. “And you left. Like it meant nothing.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then she turns to the others.
“You all want to know why I’ve been so pissed off?” she says, addressing the group now. “Why I haven’t slept right in days?”
Everyone watches, frozen still.
She looks back at you. “Because they left me.”
You feel every set of eyes on you. But Shauna’s are the ones that hurt the most.
“I didn’t stop loving you,” she says, softer now. “You just stopped wanting me. And I’m not the one who should be ashamed of that.”
You breathe in through your nose. “You don’t get to act like the victim when you made me afraid to stay.”
Shauna leans in until her forehead nearly touches yours. Her voice drops low again, private. “And yet here you are looking at me like you want me to fix this.”
You hate that she’s right.
You hate that you want her anyway.
⸻
That night, you don’t sleep in the storage cabin.
You sit on the edge of your old bedroll, cold and quiet. Shauna doesn’t speak. She just passes you a spare blanket, sets her journal down, and lies beside you like nothing ever changed.
You don’t touch.
But when you finally lie down, your back to her, she whispers, “I missed you.”
You close your eyes. “You made them hate me.”
“I didn’t have to try very hard.”
Then her hand slips under the blanket, resting on your waist.
You let it.
Not because she’s won, but because fighting her feels like trying to fight gravity.
Because loving her still feels like the only thing that makes sense out here.
lottie shows her devotion to you through the earth and its wonders. fluff! this fic is part of the spring event I'm doing, called love is an art.
In the wilderness, Lottie found peace amongst the trees and flowers. She found comfort in things that could grow, wildflowers that reached up to her waist in the spring and juvenile trees that slowly climbed taller than she was. To watch the world blossom and bloom was one of her greatest pleasures.
She still finds comfort in the earth this way. It’s part of why she picked this property to begin with: she wanted her wellness center to give her the same feeling she had when she was walking through the fields as a teenager, the sun on her back and the damp earth beneath her bare feet.
If she has achieved anything in this world, she thinks it is that she has figured out how to leave it behind. She has made a point to shed the expectations of the society she grew up in and to help others reach that freedom, and she would let the whole world cling to her if it needed to in order to escape the heat.
She met you in your interview last year. It was the first time she had ever questioned her rule of no dating the staff, which was a rule almost as important as no dating the residents. But as soon as she saw you she knew that all regulations she had put in place for herself were doomed to be forgotten, and now you live with her in the biggest cabin on the property and wake up every morning in her bed.
She gets up at sunrise. It is an old habit that originated with her time in the wilderness, one she has never been able to shake. A day where she misses the sun burning against the horizon during its ascent is a day wasted, so Lottie sets her alarm and makes her tea and finds herself on the porch every morning.
Today is different. She is not on the porch when the sun rises and her tea is in a thermos instead of her handmade ceramic mug. She kneels on the ground with dirt caked under her nails and a garden trowel abandoned off to the side as she lowers another set of flowers into the hole she has made.
She is gentle as she moves the dirt back over to fill the space. She handles the flowers she has just planted as though her own love might nourish them along with the water and growing sunlight, and all the while she thinks of you.
It is a simple garden. Lottie knows it is nothing too impressive, not like what she sees in the magazines. But the space behind your back porch was looking dull, in need of some love, and she thought that preparing it in secret would be the perfect gift to you for your anniversary.
She remembers the wildflowers she used to pick in the wilderness. They were small and dainty and so delicate, and on days where she went particularly hungry they looked candied. She would sit there for hours staring at them, brushing her fingertips over the soft petals but never plucking them off.
She feels the sun on her back now. As she settles the last plant in the ground she turns, and just like every morning she is greeted by the sunrise.
—
She has cleaned all of the dirt from under her fingernails. She has changed clothes and taken the braid out of her hair by the time she gets back into bed with you.
Lottie wakes you up gently. She runs a hand along your shoulder first, following the curve of it up to the junction where it meets your neck. Then she leans down to press a soft kiss to your temple, then another, working her way down to your pulse point.
Returning a little to wakefulness, you tilt your head. She takes the opportunity to explore more of your neck, lips pressing against skin she has kissed a thousand times.
One of your hands reaches up and runs through her hair then. You are awake now, blinking sleep from your eyes. “Happy Anniversary,” you murmur.
“Happy Anniversary,” she echoes. Lottie sits up a little and meets your eyes. “I have something to show you.”
—
—
—
thank you for reading!! it's been so long since i worked on a yellowjackets fic so this was a lot of fun!
synopsis : baking cookies for your sister was definitely a chore, but it would definitely be a good excuse to see her tall, brunette teammate.
word count : 1.3k words.
— tags & warnings : no crash! au, fluff, love at first sight, older sister! jackie, jackieshauna sneak if you look closely . .
— u can find the req here . . 💌
"Shit!"
You immediately opened the oven, coughing slightly as you hissed once the warmth wrapping around the baking tray seeped through the baking glove you wore, sighing as you looked at the cookies, which looked... decent, to say the least.
"Didn't I tell you not to leave it unattended?" your Mom had appeared through the lavish kitchen of your house, leaning against the door as she sighed in annoyance, looking at the cookies you had baked.
"I know, Mom." you groaned, huffing as you leaned on the countertop, looking down on the baking tray. "But I promised Jackie I'd bake her cookies for her stupid soccer practice later."
Right, Jackie.
You didn't even know how you'd fallen to this predicament— or rather, Jackie's predicament. You had promised your friends that you all would attend this party last weekend, just that on the other day — you had fallen into an argument with your Mom, causing you to be grounded.
And what would life be, if not more dangerous?
You had maybe taken that quote a little too seriously, and decided to sneak out through your bedroom window — but of course, Jackie, being the great sister she was, had caught you sneaking through your window, wearing a dress that was a little short to be appropriate along with some denim jacket you had stolen in her dresser.
You had begged her with all your soft eyes that she couldn't tell a soul about you sneaking out, most importantly — your parents. And Jackie, being the good sister she was, had agreed — except that you were going to bake her red velvet chocolate chip cookies she had been craving like a pregnant woman for weeks now.
So here you were, stuck in your kitchen in the late Saturday afternoon — looking at the cookies that looked halfway decent, but tasted fine as you got to taste one. You can only sigh, prepag the little box you had brought from the grocery yesterday as you wrapped up the cookies, tying a little bow — as per her request.
Snatching your walkman with a grumble, you had taken a comfortable seat at the back of your family car, looking out from the window the entire time, headphones shoved up to your ears to muffle any thoughts that were threatening to spill over.
"Tell your sister to take a shower first before going home, would you?" your Mother murmured as she parked the car in the side of the school, tapping her fingers against the wheel as she looked at you through the rear view mirror.
"I know, Mom." you said, grabbing the paper bag that sat beside you the entire time, containing the warm cookies you had promised Jackie as you got out of the car, walking up to the gate of Wiskayok High.
You had walked into the side of the soccer field, looking around as not a soul could be seen in sight — a sign that they were probably finished from the practice Jackie had been nagging you on nonstop, too frustrated with her teammates.
You eventually found the locker room Jackie had instructed you to deliver her cookies, the familiar Yellowjackets sign on the door as you knocked, before the door creaked open — voices inside muffling along with the distant water running on the showers.
"Hey, Jackie's inside." looking up to see the familiar brown-eyed brunette as you only nodded, watching her widen the door to let you in. Shauna, the girl your sister's been best friends with since forever.
You finally step up inside, the distant smell of sweat enveloping the room along with the distant humming of a song playing through the room as you followed Shauna. Inside, you found other girls — one with striking auburn hair with her smile that could actually light a fucking room, another with its pale skin and white, blonde hair, voice gentle that to you, it almost sounded like a lamb.
Another had warm skin with her curls tied to a bun, tying her shoelaces in the corner as a blonde just came out of the shower, bleached blonde hair, eyeliner smudged in her eyes as she stopped to look at you for a moment, raising a brow—a silent question for who the fuck are you and why are you here?
"She's in the shower, finishing up." Shauna murmured, going to her locker as she stuffed the clothes in her duffel bag, busying herself as you nodded, looking around the rooms as your feet tapped quietly with the tiles of the floor.
"Where's Jackie?"
A voice peered up, walking over the large space where the benches were as your eyes struck each other for the first time.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
A girl had walked in, definitely the tallest among them—her skin that was warm, eyes that reflected like a doe, and her hair that was curly, tied into a lazy ponytail.
"Oh, who's this?" she asked, her brown, doe eyes peering at you as your body fixed its own posture, just in perfect time for your sister to come outside of the showers, her honey blonde hair that was still damp, looking over the two of you.
"Hey," Jackie said, taking a seat beside you as she smiled. "Great! Now that everyone's here..." she faltered, mentally checking over each girl.
"Everyone, meet my sister." she said, squeezing your shoulder slightly to emphasize her point. "Meet.. the team," she said, pointing over to the girl with striking, auburn hair. "That's Van," she said, the girl smiling at you as you nodded.
"Shauna — you know her by now. Mari... Gen, Akilah —she's new, Allie.. Tai, Laura, Natalie.." she faltered, noticing the raised eyebrows that the bleached blonde was throwing at you as she pointed at the tall girl that smiled softly at you.
"And that's Lottie." Jackie said, "Cool? Anyway—she's here to deliver my cookies, right?" Jackie said, eyes already peering over to the paper bag sitting at your lap as you were too busy maintaining eye contact with the tall chick-Lottie, you mean.
"Oh yeah. The... cookie's there." you said, grumbling as you gave her the bag, "Happy?"
"Wowza." Jackie murmured, already unwrapping the box. "You'd definitely outdone yourself." she added that had you scoffing.
"Hey, I'm not shit at cookies, you know." you said, crossing your arms as Jackie only hummed, too busy at eating the red velvet chocolate chip cookies she had been craving, and too busy to notice you and Lottie's eyes lingering at each other every now and then.
"You're being weird."
Jackie murmured as she's busy stuffing the duffel bag at the back of your family car, while you only raised a brow at her, leaning against the vehicle.
"Totally not." you mumbled, though your eyes gazed over at the familiar brunette getting out of the gates, an expensive car waiting for her at the side. Jackie, noticing your gaze, also looked over-only scoffing as she saw where your gaze was pinned.
"Yeah, right — like you're totally not being an obsessive freak about Lottie Matthews." she rolled her eyes, which you immediately glared at.
"I'm not — you're the one who's being a freak." you said, walking over to the back of your car you took your seat, your sister following moments after. "And I'm straight. I don't like girls."
"Whatever you say." she hummed, teasing you as you immediately scowled at her, focusing your gaze over to the passing buildings as your Mother drove you both home.
It was true, right? You were straight. You had only liked boys growing up, and definitely kissed them during your time, so why were you, a fullgrown teenager — had your heart beating so fast at the thought of your sister's teammate?
You didn't want to know, and it scares you that you don't want to know.
